


Coffee It Is

by Tierfal



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist
Genre: Canon: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Rain, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-02
Updated: 2012-12-02
Packaged: 2017-11-20 03:22:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/580747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tierfal/pseuds/Tierfal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Perhaps when you get down to it, rain has always been about cleansing, and honesty, and potential, and the way things fall.</p><p>[Spoilers through Brotherhood!]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coffee It Is

**Author's Note:**

> I was sitting in the office with wet feet, watching the rain and trying to work on my dissertation, and this happened. X'D

Roy Mustang considers himself something of a pillar of urbanity—obviously.  And it wasn’t easy to guide his own trajectory to this point, especially with the upbringing that he had: his debonair demeanor is the triumphant product of years upon years of persistent cultivation and constant self-correction.  He was not born to this, not like most of the brass; he has simply polished his inferior metal to a brighter shine.  Most of them don’t seem to realize that alloys are stronger, and that suits him just fine.

In any case, it has taken a hell of a lot of damned hard work to develop the suave, unruffled exterior that Roy presents to the world at large.  It’s past the point of a mask now; it is a suit of armor to seal off his vulnerabilities.  He’s gotten so good at presenting the front that sometimes even he forgets what’s underneath.

All of this makes it somewhat disconcerting that when he sees Edward Elric lying placidly on the pavement of the square on a Saturday marred by pouring rain, what emerges from Roy’s well-trained mouth is “What the fuck are you _doing_?”

Edward doesn’t even open his eyes, which is probably wise given that he would only get rain in them.  “What does it look like I’m doing?”

Roy’s only been out for five minutes, and his hair is so soaked that little icy droplets are trailing down the back of his neck.  When he’s Führer, he will implement a new design of the black coat that includes a hood.

“It looks like you’re making a concerted effort to catch a cold,” he says.

Ed smiles.  Raindrops splatter on his face, strike his cheekbones, darken his hair; water sluices over his throat; his coat is a sodden mess.  “Maybe that’s it.  Maybe I was really, really thirsty.  Maybe I’m trying to get back in touch with the cycles of the world.”

Roy frowns.  The rain is streaking down past his collar—it is _actively_ malicious, and Ed must be suffering tremendously.  “Such as the cycle of contracting pneumonia and dying ignominiously in a hospital after all of that effort to survi—”

“Fuck you, Mustang,” Ed says without much fire.  “I accomplished everything I ever intended to, all at once.  I’m having a little trouble sorting out the ‘what next’ part.  I mean, I figured I’d probably literally die trying sooner or later, so I didn’t plan too far ahead.  I need some time to think.  Alone.  Fuck off.”

“Alone,” Roy says, “on the ground, in the rain? Alphonse would have slung you over his shoulder and carried you off by now.”

“Kinky,” Ed says mildly.

Roy’s stomach does a—strange and inexplicable and indescribable thing.  It only feels so warm because his skin is prickling with goosebumps now, of course.  “I’m sure whooping cough would make a wonderful supplement to your witty repartee.”

“You are a giant worrywart,” Ed says.

“I prefer the term ‘circumspect strategist’,” Roy says.  He braces both feet, leans down, and holds a hand out.  “Up.”

Ed cracks an eye open, tilts his head to shield it slightly from the rain, and smirks, the little shit.  “I don’t take orders from you anymore.”

“‘Anymore’?” Roy asks.  Freezing raindrops are snaking down his back. “You never did.  Fortunately, this isn’t an order; it’s a prudent suggestion made by a concerned party with a vested interest in your physical health.”

“You’re going to drown me in words before I ever have any problems here,” Ed says, closing his eyes again.

“You’re lying in a puddle,” Roy says.  “Oddly enough, my impulse is to categorize that as a problem.  Come _on_ , Edward.”

Ed peeks at him, smiling impishly now.  “You’re getting all useless.”

No one on the planet can make Roy simultaneously believe in and despair for humanity quite like Edward Elric can.

“Yes, thank you,” he says.  He curls and uncurls his fingers in a way that he hopes is enticing.  “Come on.  There’s a coffee shop around the corner where they know me, and they value my business too much to kick us out the moment you start dripping all over their floor.”

“You gonna get me something hot?” Ed asks, eyes bright, and his grin skews into something even more devilish, and Roy’s heart—well, he’d been meaning to schedule a general checkup with Knox; he leads something of a high-stress existence, after all.  He’ll put in a subtle word about palpitations and… presumably get mocked six ways from Sunday.

“If it gets you out of the rain,” Roy says, “yes.  Look, Ed, I know that moving noticeably upwards isn’t exactly your forte, b—”

Ed’s up like a shot at that, of course, and smacking Roy roundly on the arm, which between the two of them results in a squishing noise.  “At least some things never change, like the fact that you’re a huge, height-prejudiced bastard.”

“You’re shivering,” Roy says.

“That’s ’cause you’re revolting,” Ed says.

“It’s because you tried to give yourself hypothermia,” Roy says.  He does not take Ed’s arm; he does not touch Ed’s face; he does not run his fingers through Ed’s streaming bangs.

“I don’t have hypothermia,” Ed says.  “I can’t even do that right.”  He pauses, and then he makes a face.  “Huh.  Wet underwear.  That’s uncomfortable.”

“Imagine that,” Roy says.  “You lay in the rain, and you got wet.  I thought you were supposed to be a genius.”

“I thought _you_ were supposed to be a gentleman,” Ed says.

“I prefer the term ‘curator of manners’,” Roy says.  “Come on, it’s abominable out here.”

“You gonna throw me over your shoulder?” Ed asks, and his eyes—and the angle of his body—it’s a _challenge_ , and Roy…

If he’s being honest, Roy has been deflecting Ed for a long time.  If he’s being honest, Roy isn’t sure he could withstand the impact if he faced Ed head-on.  If he’s being honest, Roy wants this, with a slow-burning fervency that scares him.

Ed’s right; he’s a worrywart.

“Later,” Roy says.  “We can’t have you sitting around in wet underwear for too long, can we?”

Ed’s eyes widen, and droplets bead in his eyelashes, and he grins so widely and so sincerely that all of the cultivated urbanity in the world couldn’t stop Roy from grinning back.

“Coffee it is,” Ed says.


End file.
